


life is a drink, and love's a drug.

by toffeelemon



Series: it is what it is [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Irene Adler - Freeform, M/M, Mind Palace John Watson, Post TAB, Post-Episode: The Abominable Bride, References to Drugs, cheesy drug/love metaphor, cheesy emotional fluff, emotional context and little plot, john and mary's marriage is nonexistant, mind palace shinanigans, s4 is dead to me, so is realistic dialogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-09-20 08:02:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9482021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toffeelemon/pseuds/toffeelemon
Summary: “It’s you, John! That’s what it is. Who cares about heroine off the streets when you can have the kind that has blue eyes and a heartbeat."John is still devastated from knowing Sherlock overdosed on the plane, but Sherlock is trying. Besides, he has the real thing now.title from coldplay's hymn for the weekend.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WhatIsAir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatIsAir/gifts).



> I wrote this last year immediately after TAB, so go figure. I lived in a world where series 4 didn't exist and I am happy to pretend to still be. I'm not a fan of sticking to canon anyways. Sorry for hazy mind palace/real life paragraphing in advance!
> 
> This was an 18th birthday present that I decided to upload because it's destined to be with my other crappier fic, this year's birthday present.
> 
> Title from Coldplay's Hymn for the Weekend (as you can tell this was a product of the past).

“So...what do we do now?” Watson fell into his chair ungracefully as he fumbled with the top button of his waistcoat, his exasperation clearly visible, even to an idiot’s eye; and Sherlock would’ve jumped, if it weren’t for the unnecessary physical energy that would require. The empty spot he had been staring into for hours was suddenly occupied, and the smartest man on the planet found himself quite helpless, which was a common occurrence every time he was startled by his doctor’s presence. He contemplated on ignoring the question, because to be quite honest Sherlock Holmes himself did not know the answer as well. However there was not much option as to where else he could aimlessly look at (not without boring himself out of counting spiders and deducing Mrs. Hudson’s cleaning schedule, anyways), and he could never resist that stupidly obnoxious look of Watson’s, so Sherlock had to resort to feigning genius, his go-to solution to any problem, since half of the time nobody noticed anyways.

“We wait,” the key to a perfect lie is to be as vague as possible. Unfortunately Watson was not entirely convinced as a scoff, which resembled more like a laugh that was forced by gunpoint, was elicited from the man as he readjusted himself on the worn out armchair, slumping in the crease due to his insufficient height. “We hear nothing from him for three months, it’s driving me crazy, and you’re telling me to wait?” his voice did that squeaky thing at the end of the sentence again, as he always does when he found anything other than food in their… correction, Sherlock’s fridge. “Criminal masterminds won’t come waltzing to you if you just sit and wait,” the doctor added, as if he was the logical one here, his eyes shooting daggers through the tense atmosphere.

Sherlock sighed and avoided Watson’s steady gaze, his emotional detachment starting to wear thin as he muttered under his breath, “Yes, John, I love how you always state the obvious.” Sherlock didn’t even know was he referring to just the fact that Moriarty decided to march into the picture out of the blue, only to disappear again; or was he referring to the fact that it’s driving Sherlock Holmes crazy how he couldn’t do anything about it. Watson seemed not to hear though, or at least appeared not to have, as he chewed on his pipe, outwardly acting out Sherlock’s own frustration. Conversation died between them then, however Watson was still restless, not so subtly eyeing the man across him every now and then, as if this incessant silent prodding was going to fish out some new information about the case from the clueless consulting detective, who seemed to find the skull on the mantlepiece particularly interesting, shifting in his leather chair every few seconds under the scrutinising stare. Needless to say Sherlock was rather concerned about John’s people-judging skills and his easily impressed persona, thinking that the drug addict was smarter than he actually was, as well as the limited number of ways in which he could bullshit his way through Dr. Watson’s overestimations with the least damage to his own ego. 

After a few tense minutes, the tip of Sherlock’s lips curved upwards in a crooked smirk as he stated, “all I did was waited and here you are,” Watson widened his eyes in surprise, before realising how he had subconsciously leaned forward in his desperation to at least crack a bit of this resurrection mystery, their knees almost touching by now as Sherlock remained slouched in his leather armchair, his long legs reaching for the other one across him, whereas the flatmate was almost on his feet, as if ready to run any second. Watson rolled his eyes fondly before his face fell into his palms, a giggle surfacing out of amusement and near paranoia from the impatience. He collected himself afterwards, a hand clutching at Sherlock’s knee as he heaved himself back into his own armchair, eyes still glinting with mirth when he settled back into his place. Sherlock’s stomach twisted uncomfortably as the sight loosely resembled the hazy memory that was John’s stag night, which spiralled into a complete flop shortly after they were passed out drunk on these very same chairs.

Sherlock was interrupted by unmistakable footsteps approaching the door, and he stared at his companion in brief confusion, before being knocked out of his trance altogether. It was John, towering over Sherlock with a mixture of concern and anger etched onto his features, but it was the other one. His waistcoat was replaced by that cream coloured jumper that seemed to be the only item of clothing that John possessed, and when Sherlock blinked again, the armchair that he had removed out of spite a while ago had disappeared, replaced by an empty void that granted him full view of his lab bench/kitchen table. John continued firing futile questions at the unreactive pile of limbs, but all Sherlock could do was stare blankly into the empty spot before him, feeling weirdly disappointed although it was all of his own doing, his own imagination.

“Good God, Sherlock, what is it this time?” John pressed his palm into the leather, observing the half conscious man before him. “Where’s your list?” he asked defeatedly after moments of contemplating and biting his lip in concentration. Sherlock winced at the question and shook his head with the little energy he had. At least he didn’t have to worry about pretending to be the hero in front of this John, now that even his last shred of dignity was also stripped of him. Sherlock was slowly losing consciousness by the minute as every movement of John’s lips were still in sight, every anxious tug and bite all so perfectly clear, but the words start to jumble together and he was no longer listening.

The chair was back, and so was Watson. Sherlock felt like the fool now, as the man in front of him sent him an uncharacteristic grin, as if he had known the entire time. Only Sherlock’s own mind could make even John Watson, the definition of good, look like the devil’s messenger. Sherlock supposed that this imagery wasn’t entirely untrue, because there was no news more devastating than learning that his John, the one who always stayed by his side and went on ridiculous adventures with him, was no longer here and he had been fooling himself with his own rendition of the real thing instead. Luckily, an apologetic smile soon made its way back to Watson’s face again, and Sherlock whispered a small “Thank You” as he closed his eyes and tried not to ponder at the differences between his figment of imagination and the real thing who was yelling at him now. 

“Sherlock! The list!” John looked like he was about to strangle Sherlock with his own hands out of fury, only to bring him back to life again, and Sherlock shook his head weakly with a small smile. “John, I swear I didn’t…” He chose to blatantly ignore Sherlock’s denial and began to search the messy desk for evidence of any substances instead. Persuading a stubborn John Watson was exhausting and Sherlock opted to retreat to his own mind again as the doctor continued to fuss over him.

“What is he doing with my hand?” Sherlock looked around, as if expecting an answer from absolutely anyone, and yet was disappointed when he wasn’t met with the familiar sight of a certain twirly moustache. Someone else has taken John’s armchair instead, someone none other than Irene Adler, the Woman, complete with the red lipstick and Sherlock’s damn coat, and a sickly sweet smile plastered on her cheeks. “I don’t know, you tell me,” she replied bitterly with a challenging glint in her eye, swinging her Louboutin stiletto on the tip of her toes, the crimson sole burning the back of Sherlock’s eyes.

This sent Sherlock back to the harsh reality and suddenly he was hyper aware of how John Watson was currently all over him, staring into his soul as he literally pinned Sherlock in his chair, whilst his left hand reached for Sherlock’s pulse, still deciphering what did the drug addict got himself into this time, sadly with no avail. Sherlock’s senses were overwhelming him as he focused on how John’s fingers felt as they tugged on his wrist, he was so hyper aware that he could almost visualise the way how John’s left hand always settle half an inch lower than his right to steady his pistol, from the calluses that was brushing against his own skin. Sherlock immediately remembered about his pulse and damn it, it really was speeding away. Traitor. His breath hitched as John looked at him intently, as if catching onto his secret. However the thick headed idiot just screwed his eyebrows in confusion as he always does, and Sherlock sighed softly in relief, before attending to his dreamlike trance again, in hopes of escaping reality.

Watson was back and Sherlock smiled sincerely, “I thought you’d never come back.” Watson’s smile matched Sherlock’s as he tilted his head to rest on his palm. “Of course I would come back, why wouldn’t I?” Sherlock felt a bit lightheaded as Watson stated that in actual confusion, as if staying by Sherlock Holmes’ side, the emotional wreck of conflicting abilities, was the most natural thing in the world. Or it could just be his current state of health playing mind games on him, as he fluctuated in and out of consciousness and faintly hear John’s repetitive “What is it this time, Sherlock?” humming in the background. 

“Can you tell him that I am actually not on drugs?” Sherlock murmured to Watson in frustration, who merely raised an eyebrow, unimpressed by his antics. “I’m just a figment of your imagination, Sherlock,” he shrugged. 

“You can be so dumb sometimes, you know that?” Sherlock scrunched up his nose in distaste at John’s attempt to yell some sense into his head. Watson looked mildly offended, but seemed to have caught on that Sherlock directed that to his real world counterpart, because soon enough the man in the waistcoat mused over John’s panicked state too, chuckling at his friend’s struggle.

Meanwhile John was having a hard time trying to figure out what was wrong with Sherlock, fumbling around for the list that hopefully exists and asking the guy himself every time he appeared to be somewhat conscious.

“Ugh,” Sherlock grunted as Watson snorted at him. “It’s you, John! That’s what it is. Who cares about heroine off the streets when you can have the kind that has blue eyes and a heartbeat,” he announced dramatically as Watson laughed hysterically. “...and you call me the romantic,” he spluttered through giggles, although the growing blush was obvious. Sherlock’s cheek matched his as he began laughing too, his deep voice lacing in with John’s high pitched chuckles, and their laughter resonated in his head, calming his erratic heartbeat and hazy mind. It was a bit pathetic, really, but Sherlock missed having an imaginary friend nonetheless, a habit that he had grown out of soon after making actual friends ie. John Watson. After he had met John, the voice in his head was no longer necessary, because everything that Sherlock ever wanted to talk about, John was always here to listen. Except for that one thing. So it was nice to be here to muse over his hopeless pining over said friend with Watson in a Waistcoat instead, it was like having their little inside joke. How ironic, even when creating a fictional figure in his mind, Sherlock inevitably went back to John. 

“If you had half of that flair on The Science of Deduction, I’m sure your blog would be more popular than mines in no time,” Watson clutched his knees as he swallowed the last hiccup of laughter. “Shut up, you read it anyways,” Sherlock retorted and weirdly, Watson made no reaction, but instead sobered up as he glanced up at something. “Time to wake up, Sherlock.”

After speaking with Mrs. Hudson, John was relieved to find out that Sherlock indeed had not been intoxicating himself, his pale complexion and eerie heartbeat were just a result of consuming absolutely nothing, for the detective had been stuck in that position for five days already. At least it was nothing lethal. He shook his head at the sight of the man, curled up in his undersized armchair and muttering incoherent answers to John’s enquiry. He felt slightly bad now for not trusting Sherlock when he had said he wasn’t on drugs, but quickly shook it off as he distractedly covered the lanky frame with the dressing gown that was lying around before heading off.

Sherlock blinked his way back to earth when a warm tin foil tray was shoved into his palms. “Eat,” the doctor demanded as Sherlock peered at the microwave dinner in distaste, but obeyed anyways as John settled on the desk chair next to him, pressurizing Sherlock with that goddamn look again. This was unnerving, especially just after when Sherlock finally got used to John’s lack of presence in the flat, and now he was watching him eat. John briskly fetched him a mug of water as soon as Sherlock managed to take in a few gulps of lukewarm pasta, wordlessly handing the mug over with an undefinable expression. Sherlock was too tired to think when there are better things to waste brainpower on (aka what the bloody hell Moriarty wants), and he could already feel the food slowing him down even more, so he just quietly muttered, “Thank you, Doctor,” before disregarding the man again and shutting the rest of the world out.

When Sherlock resurfaced to consciousness again, it was already the next day, early hours in the morning judging by the light seeping through the heavy curtains, and he was momentarily confused to find himself in the comfort of his own bed, instead of the uncomfortable armchair where all his last recollections were. Sherlock almost jumped out of his bed when he noticed another person in the room, John snoring lightly in the corner whilst slumped in one of their...his dining chair. He craned his neck to get a better view, but groaned and flopped back into the mattress instead when lightheadedness washed over him. Sherlock ran his fingers through his messy curls exasperatedly, before falling back into slumber.

Watson’s features were unusually soft under the peeking sunlight behind the curtains, and Sherlock couldn’t help but smile halfheartedly at the man beside him, the distance of his bed and the corner of the room reduced as the man opted for a seat right on the edge of the mattress instead. These were the smiles that didn’t require any physical effort, because it was just a natural human response, for John was here beside him and Sherlock felt undeniably content in his mere presence. Archie once asked Sherlock, does he ever feel scared when on any of his cases, chasing after murderers and more often than not getting himself into mortal danger. Obviously, being the most arrogant man in London, Sherlock Holmes denied in a heartbeat, and the child simply awed at his deadpanning. Truth to be told, it wasn’t that he didn’t feel fear and the brain chemistry didn’t work on him; it was just that the presence of John Watson always overwrites this fear in the hard drive, because although this silly man was an unreliable person when it came to stopping murderers from escaping, Sherlock also knew without doubt that he could trust his life on him. He wasn’t afraid of the fall because he could count on John to catch him. 

“Why are you here?” Sherlock inquired after moments of fondly staring at Watson, the usual malice in the voice that he directed to the general public nowhere to be found. Sometimes Sherlock was so tempted to risk an overdose, if it meant that he could drown in his own thoughts forever, where he didn’t have to mask his emotions all the time. Sherlock was actually surprised that John hadn’t left him last night, after finding him in such a sorry state and quite frankly, with a lack of better words, tucking the world’s only consulting detective to bed. Who did he direct the question to, John or the John in his head? Sherlock wasn’t sure, probably both. To be honest recently he really wasn’t up to the game, slipping into his mind palace more than he had wanted to and often got distracted by his imaginary John Watson. Speaking of whom, Watson didn’t answer his question, instead was smiling cryptically at Sherlock instead.

“Why am I here?” Watson redirected the question back to Sherlock, who rolled over onto his back, studying the intriguing patterns on his ceiling as he pondered this philosophical question. In his peripheral vision he could see the shadow the other man was casting onto the wall, and he could just tell that scrutinizing gaze was set on him again, which was making Sherlock squirm. “It helps me to think,” the Sherlock huffed defeatedly, still refusing to look Watson’s way. The room was dead silent and the detective could just hear the anticipation, expecting him to elaborate without room of compromise. Sherlock sighed before speaking out loud again. “It’s so hard being in rehab, it slows me down sooo much,” the silence was defeating and this time round, Sherlock could not hear any sound from Watson, not even the smallest rustle that the fidgety ex-soldier often liked to make.

“Sherlock, exactly how did you forget to eat again? Did you delete it?” John mocked him as he yanked the curtains wide, Sherlock yelping at the harsh, blinding light. He slowly swung his two lanky legs to the edge of the bed, fingers still delicately holding his head in place as he tried to shake off the faintness. “Eating slows me down, we’ve...I’ve got a case, John, there’s no time to waste,” Sherlock muttered under his breath as he reached up to rub his eyes, feigning nonchalance as John approached to take his pulse, his trigger-calloused fingers applying pressure on the vein just behind Sherlock’s neck. It was even worse than just his wrist being held in John’s hand, as Sherlock kept his eyes glued onto the mahogany floor tiling, not once risking a glance upwards because he knew exactly how tall John was and just how close their faces would be if he only moved an inch. He didn’t trust himself with that sort of proximity. John Watson was his antidote to the horror and thrill of staying alive, but simultaneously was Sherlock’s biggest fear too. It wasn’t the man himself that was terrifying, more so was the crushing weight of doubt that if Sherlock just made one wrong move, he could lose John forever, the single best thing that has ever happened to an undeserving human like him. Well, it seemed that the fear wasn’t necessary anymore, because Sherlock had indeed already made that wrong move, when he faked his death three years ago and decided to keep it a secret from John, who decided to move on with his life. Although it could never be the same again, just the two of them against the world, John came back to his side nonetheless (to some extent anyways), and that was already more than what Sherlock could hope for. He simply couldn’t afford another risk, selfishly trying to tug John closer when it could have a negative effect and pushed him away instead.

“Wait, why are you here?” once without the distraction of John’s touch, the calculating machine came back to life as Sherlock peered upwards to watch the doctor in front of him, who pulled a melancholy face with his arms crossed. John sighed, his normally rigid and alert stance slumped considerably, as he tiredly retorted, “You’re Sherlock Holmes, make a deduction.” Sherlock did as he was told, eyes rapidly scanning through the growing lines under John’s eyes, to his 3-day cream coloured knitted sweater, to his crumpled jeans; however he kept his mouth shut. After all the sociopath did actually know a thing or two about human nature, despite what he often advertised; and when something was said, it rarely came from the words, but more was conveyed through the way the speaker delivered it. Although John Watson was a confusing man (he decided to save Sherlock’s unworthy life, on more than one occasion, which was confusing enough), if there was one thing that Sherlock absolutely was sure about him, was that he hated to accept the truth, especially when said out loud (if in doubt, always refer to the time Sherlock got punched for pointing out the ridiculous moustache). Obviously John was avoiding home, probably had some petty disputes with Mary, but Sherlock kept his lips sealed tight as he deliberately blinked his eyes repeatedly, attempting to fool John with clueless innocence. John didn’t seem convinced since he examined Sherlock’s wide-eyed look with skepticism, and Sherlock cursed himself for not possessing the powers of persuasion that was John’s upper hand.

“I’m bit rusty these days, now that I’m in rehab,” Sherlock had another go again, making up a half lie as he presented John with one of his rare tight lipped smiles, those that were tiny and timid but nonetheless the most sincerity Sherlock Holmes could ever reveal only once in awhile. John’s raised eyebrows and general stern expressions immediately softened at the genuinity of that statement, however still not quite believing that the drug addict was actually quitting for good, gently asking the question that Sherlock had heard countless times within the last 12 hours, “You are serious, right? About going into rehab.” Sherlock slightly flinched at his patronising doctor tone, but nodded anyways, the blood rushing to the tips of his ears betraying him as he muttered almost incoherently, “Didn’t want to disappoint you anymore, especially after… you know.” He hated sustaining eye contact every time when he had to confront John, when he was too vulnerable to mask his emotions, but Sherlock was tempted to steal a glance anyways. John was blinking rapidly, and a giant boulder dropped to the pit of his stomach when Sherlock realised the man with nerves of steel in front of him was close to tears. The last time that John was seen in such a state, it was before Sherlock’s own headstone; and even then, he didn’t really cry either, because death was a common occurrence to John and he was too stricken by disappointment in his fate, that the moment his life had finally taken a better turn came crashing down too quickly, to actually feel pain. John was numb back then.

Sherlock was in full on panic mode, despite the indifferent exterior. Did he say something wrong? At the possibility of causing John more hurt than he already have done immediately sent the normally composed detective into overdrive, rambling on with his inhumanely fast jumble of words. “John, I promise I’m really going into rehab this time round, I wouldn’t break my promise ever again because I’ve already done enough of that, please just trust me one more time and stop being so suspicious…” The words died in his throat when his wildly gesturing hand was gently but firmly halted by John’s own, whose facial expression was too complex for a startled Sherlock Holmes to decipher. “It’s fine. It’s all fine, Sherlock,” everything about John was so sturdy and trustworthy, from his unwavering eyes to his soothing voice, and Sherlock mentally hit himself on the head for ever pondering on the thought that he couldn’t trust on John to always stay, no matter the circumstance.

Not a lot of things could send Sherlock Holmes into a whirlwind of anxiety, but funnily enough John Watson was a common trigger. Moments after they met, John Watson had already made more conversation with him than all of the other human interaction that happened throughout the year combined, and the sociopath should have seen it coming when he asked about relationships. Sherlock didn’t really mean to get his hopes up and assume so soon, but it wasn’t an everyday occurrence that an eligible bachelor waltzed into his life just like that, who liked dead bodies and Sherlock’s deduction skills as much as Sherlock himself did too (okay maybe John was more impressed by Sherlock than Sherlock was by himself, which said a lot), so it was muddling Sherlock’s mind up for a bit. Although John did very blatantly refused Angelo’s romantic candle, Sherlock went out of his way anyways, because his deduction skills were actually way less accurate than John always claimed them to be and he just had to be sure. Sirens began blaring loudly in his head when Sherlock denied John’s apparent interest in quick rambles (because as much as he had liked to flaunt himself towards John, the uncertainty held him back and luckily saved him some embarrassment), to which John had assured him again and again that “It’s fine,” and despite Sherlock never quite understanding what John had actually meant, the reassurance had been enough to fight his demons away. The small, almost unheard “thank you” had been added as an afterthought, although Sherlock couldn’t exactly tell what he was thankful for. Maybe for someone that liked dead bodies and crime scenes and didn’t really do the boy-girl thing, being told that “it’s all fine” was all he ever needed, all he had ever waited for his entire life. In addition to that was a long list of things that Sherlock had to thank John for, from how he always gave Sherlock more credit than he deserved, to how he always managed to drive Sherlock’s insecurities away; so the gratitude was definitely called for, despite how out of character it was. Thus that was how the self proclaimed sociopath fell deep, in all Sherlock Holmes fashion.

John was currently centimetres away from him, the kitchen chair that was previously abandoned in the corner relocated to face directly towards the edge of the bed, where Sherlock was still perched on, daydreaming away. When Sherlock found those addictive blue eyes again, something seemed to have shifted within John, whose defensive facade was no longer on show. He was doing that habit of his again, when he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite get it out, and he would repeatedly open and close his mouth whilst thinking furiously, which Sherlock had found to be one of the most hilarious traits of John, reminding him of a goldfish, but the childish man kept his laughter in anyways. Sherlock always felt the need to be extra polite when his behaviour was being policed by John, or merely when in John’s presence, who loved social norms way more than necessary. There was nothing much to do as Sherlock not so patiently anticipated whatever John’s grand speech was, so he occupied himself with practicing John’s persuasive looks on the man himself instead, widening his bright eyes and blinking at John frantically, as if it would put a spell on him.

It seemed that voicing Sherlock’s deductions out loud was indeed not necessary, because moments later John had chose to verbally tell as to how he had ended up in his old flat again, staying overnight as well. “Mary and I...had a little domestic again,” he chuckled humorlessly at the reference to Mrs. Hudson’s eccentric vocabulary, before expanding on his statement. “It’s funny how three years can tell you so little about a person, it’s like I don’t know this woman at all!” Sherlock made no reply to this, but rather only distractedly reached up to tug at the collar, fingertips ghosting the scar under his thin cotton shirt, where Mary’s deliberately diverted bullet had made a dent in his flesh. Sherlock hated to see John Watson suffer, however human interaction was not one of his expertise and all he could do was helplessly watch the tiny muscles in John’s face strain and slack, reading the emotions but not acting on any of them.

How was Sherlock supposed to fix this anyways? The obvious solution was to persuade John to leave Mary and move back in, which rather suited Sherlock; however the situation was more complicated, now that there’s a baby involved, and despite Mary being a vicious assassin who almost took Sherlock’s life, she was also the one who pieced John back together when Sherlock broke him in the first place. Although Sherlock couldn’t trust Mary at all, he knew for sure that Mary would never hurt John and he could always count on this debatably intelligent woman to watch over John Watson, who always get into unnecessary danger thanks to Sherlock Holmes’ name, because she genuinely loved John, almost as much as Sherlock did. It would be easier if Sherlock just despised Mary altogether and went out of his way to get rid of her so it would just be Sherlock Holmes and his blogger against the world again, however John cared about Mary and automatically Sherlock might have unusually grown to care for Mary too, because she was smart and she made John Watson happy, and John being happy was one of scarce things that made Sherlock Holmes smile to himself and his petri dishes. 

John looked like he was in so much pain and Sherlock couldn’t stand it anymore, so he just acted on instinct, reaching out to grab John’s hand that was sitting on the edge of his lap, as if that was the correct response in the book of Human Nature. Unlike the previous time when Sherlock had stretched his arms to seek for John’s reassuring presence, which was futile because he couldn’t get off that roof and they were miles apart, John’s palm currently sat in the heart of his own, his pulse steady and unwavering like everything else about him, and Sherlock momentarily forgot that he wasn’t the one who needed the consoling. John glanced up in surprise as Sherlock clutched his hand on impulse, and the moment their eyes met the sirens began blaring again. Sherlock should’ve known all along: John “not gay” Watson had always been reluctant, had always drawn the lines bold and clear, heck, he never went a week without a new girlfriend; yet once again Sherlock took the slim chance anyways, since he had long ago fallen into the trap of vicious hope. Mycroft was wrong, caring wasn’t the dangerous disadvantage that he should avoid at all costs; hoping was. It was hope that pulled Sherlock into this giant mess, after all; the simple act of offering to have a flatshare all stemming from the hope that someone actually liked him, all because John Watson was impressed when he was supposed to be disgusted. 

John had never seen Sherlock’s emotions so vulnerably open on display: there was the unmissable initial hurt when John had acknowledged the touch, then came the fear the instance Sherlock’s lean fingers retracted rapidly, as if John was in the dark swimming pool again, seemingly speaking on Moriarty’s behalf. Sherlock Holmes, for all the unthinkable situations he had endured, was uncharacteristically taking in a shaky breath, not trusting his voice to choke out an apology just yet. Sherlock had always seen what was coming, even the time when he stepped onto the rooftop of Bart's, however this time round, he was stepping into the unknown, and John wasn’t even by his side to calm his nerves.

John Watson would always remain to be Sherlock’s most brain wrecking puzzle, because Sherlock definitely didn’t see this coming. Instead of shoving Sherlock away as he was accustomed to, John’s hand found his again as he grasped Sherlock even closer, their fingers intertwining as if this was the rule of thumb in the book of Human Nature. That was about the time when Sherlock went into overdrive and functioned purely on the high instead. Rehab could go screw itself because this was too addictive for the drug addict to ever quit. 

John was exhausted; for the past few months he had been constantly on edge, walking on eggshells every day because everything had been changing too fast; one day he and Mary were furiously in love and the next, he contemplated a divorce. After the initial scare, it was really nice to come back home, where Sherlock was still being dear old Sherlock as always, living life like nothing was altered, simultaneously being the genius and the idiot he was. John had always wanted someone who would never change, who he could always count on, in contrast to his and Mary’s rocky relationship; and Sherlock could easily be the one, if he didn’t bloody faked his own death and not decide to come back until a good three years later. However John’s faith was restored when Sherlock very sincerely confessed that he cared about John’s opinion so much that he was finally quitting substances for good, and maybe John’s heart was moved for a tiny bit because Sherlock Holmes wasn’t supposed to give a damn about anybody’s opinion. John was more than tempted to entertain the possibility of them, of him and Sherlock, now that the stars had aligned and all the excuses he had been making for himself seemed so trivial now.

John leaned into Sherlock, his forehead resting on Sherlock’s taller and leaner shoulder, and he was finally home. No more pretending, no more second guessing, no more fear; because Sherlock was here with him and had promised to always be here with him. Sherlock’s heart was lurching a mile per second that without doubt, John would have to be deaf to not notice; it was physically straining him so much that the irrational part of him debated just ripping his own heart out and handing it over to John, since his heart had always belonged to John anyways. John might actually be deaf though, because Sherlock had called out for him so many times but he never noticed, at least not until now. “Thank you,” John whispered into Sherlock’s collarbone, a small content smile playing on his lips despite being out of Sherlock’s sight. 

As if thinking while being on a high wasn’t difficult enough, John Watson had to confuse Sherlock Holmes yet once again, who genuinely had no idea what was happening or why was John thanking him. Despite the urge to wrap his arms around John, they were awkwardly kept by his sides instead, fiddling with the sheets as Sherlock voiced his confusion out loud. “Why are you thanking me? John? I should be the one thanking you! I never would have thought that you would ever forgive me, after inflicting so much hurt on you. You just did it again, coming back even though I’m a worthless junkie… You’ve always seen more in me than I actually was, I can’t thank you enough…” He was silenced by John’s exasperated chuckles, who found the world’s only consulting detective absolutely ridiculous for being such an idiot. John was surprised that he didn’t realise how bloody in love he was with Sherlock earlier, because Sherlock was possibly the sweetest person ever, ironically despite being a prick; because being clueless to how normal humans interact and being brutally honest was a weird and wonderful match, resulting in Sherlock unknowingly saying such heartwarming things that John just wanted to cuddle the tall man and protect his pure and naive soul from all the dangers of the world. On the other hand, poor Sherlock, just like the time when everyone had teared up during his best man’s speech, immediately blamed himself and searched for flaws in his previous words and actions, shaking his head ruefully as he muttered questions to himself.

If Anderson’s drug bust taught John Watson one thing, it was that yelling was never a successful method to stop someone’s train of thoughts. So John opted for a better tactic instead. 

John kissed Sherlock and everything stopped. At this rate Sherlock was probably overdosing, but he really couldn’t care less because John’s lips were addictive and so was his fingers tracing the back of his neck and John John JaWN. When they were finally apart, all Sherlock could do was blink into the distance, his mind entirely blank; whereas John let out another breathless chuckle again, staring up at Sherlock in awe, as if he saw the world in him.

The falling never hurt Sherlock, but eventually he would hit the ground and everything came crashing down. When his brain rebooted and started up again, what had just happened finally kicked in and the panic hit Sherlock like a train. For the first time round Sherlock was the one who shove John away, although subconsciously his grip remained tight on the criss-cross of the cream-coloured yarn. “What does this mean? What about your marriage? What about Mary? Oh God John I’ve made a terrible mistake…” Sherlock was silenced yet again with another gentle peck on the lips, John forcing him to look him in the eyes as his thoughts were halted by John’s forehead touching his own, and Sherlock was no longer afraid, because John was here with him and he was here to stay.

“It’s fine, Sherlock. It’s all fine.”


End file.
